New Grub Street (13 page)

She allowed the interval between them to become greater. In a
minute or two Milvain turned up Charlotte Street, and so she lost
sight of him.

In Tottenham Court Road she waited for an omnibus that would
take her to the remoter part of Camden Town; obtaining a corner
seat, she drew as far back as possible, and paid no attention to
her fellow-passengers. At a point in Camden Road she at length
alighted, and after ten minutes' walk reached her destination in a
quiet by-way called St Paul's Crescent, consisting of small, decent
houses. That at which she paused had an exterior promising comfort
within; the windows were clean and neatly curtained, and the
polishable appurtenances of the door gleamed to perfection. She
admitted herself with a latch-key, and went straight upstairs
without encountering anyone.

Descending again in a few moments, she entered the front room on
the ground-floor. This served both as parlour and dining-room; it
was comfortably furnished, without much attempt at adornment. On
the walls were a few autotypes and old engravings. A recess between
fireplace and window was fitted with shelves, which supported
hundreds of volumes, the overflow of Yule's library. The table was
laid for a meal. It best suited the convenience of the family to
dine at five o'clock; a long evening, so necessary to most literary
people, was thus assured. Marian, as always when she had spent a
day at the Museum, was faint with weariness and hunger; she cut a
small piece of bread from a loaf on the table, and sat down in an
easy chair.

Presently appeared a short, slight woman of middle age, plainly
dressed in serviceable grey. Her face could never have been very
comely, and it expressed but moderate intelligence; its lines,
however, were those of gentleness and good feeling. She had the
look of one who is making a painful effort to understand something;
this was fixed upon her features, and probably resulted from the
peculiar conditions of her life.

'Rather early, aren't you, Marian?' she said, as she closed the
door and came forward to take a seat.

'Yes; I have a little headache.'

'Oh, dear! Is that beginning again?'

Mrs Yule's speech was seldom ungrammatical, and her intonation
was not flagrantly vulgar, but the accent of the London poor, which
brands as with hereditary baseness, still clung to her words,
rendering futile such propriety of phrase as she owed to years of
association with educated people. In the same degree did her
bearing fall short of that which distinguishes a lady. The London
work-girl is rarely capable of raising herself or being raised, to
a place in life above that to which she was born; she cannot learn
how to stand and sit and move like a woman bred to refinement, any
more than she can fashion her tongue to graceful speech. Mrs Yule's
behaviour to Marian was marked with a singular diffidence; she
looked and spoke affectionately, but not with a mother's freedom;
one might have taken her for a trusted servant waiting upon her
mistress. Whenever opportunity offered, she watched the girl in a
curiously furtive way, that puzzled look on her face becoming very
noticeable. Her consciousness was never able to accept as a
familiar and unimportant fact the vast difference between herself
and her daughter. Marian's superiority in native powers, in
delicacy of feeling, in the results of education, could never be
lost sight of. Under ordinary circumstances she addressed the girl
as if tentatively; however sure of anything from her own point of
view, she knew that Marian, as often as not, had quite a different
criterion. She understood that the girl frequently expressed an
opinion by mere reticence, and hence the carefulness with which,
when conversing, she tried to discover the real effect of her words
in Marian's features.

'Hungry, too,' she said, seeing the crust Marian was nibbling.
'You really must have more lunch, dear. It isn't right to go so
long; you'll make yourself ill.'

'Have you been out?' Marian asked.

'Yes; I went to Holloway.'

Mrs Yule sighed and looked very unhappy. By 'going to Holloway'
was always meant a visit to her own relatives—a married sister with
three children, and a brother who inhabited the same house. To her
husband she scarcely ever ventured to speak of these persons; Yule
had no intercourse with them. But Marian was always willing to
listen sympathetically, and her mother often exhibited a touching
gratitude for this condescension—as she deemed it.

'Are things no better?' the girl inquired.

'Worse, as far as I can see. John has begun his drinking again,
and him and Tom quarrel every night; there's no peace in the
'ouse.'

If ever Mrs Yule lapsed into gross errors of pronunciation or
phrase, it was when she spoke of her kinsfolk. The subject seemed
to throw her back into a former condition.

'He ought to go and live by himself' said Marian, referring to
her mother's brother, the thirsty John.

'So he ought, to be sure. I'm always telling them so. But there!
you don't seem to be able to persuade them, they're that silly and
obstinate. And Susan, she only gets angry with me, and tells me not
to talk in a stuck-up way. I'm sure I never say a word that could
offend her; I'm too careful for that. And there's Annie; no doing
anything with her! She's about the streets at all hours, and
what'll be the end of it no one can say. They're getting that
ragged, all of them. It isn't Susan's fault; indeed it isn't. She
does all that woman can. But Tom hasn't brought home ten shillings
the last month, and it seems to me as if he was getting careless. I
gave her half-a-crown; it was all I could do. And the worst of it
is, they think I could do so much more if I liked. They're always
hinting that we are rich people, and it's no good my trying to
persuade them. They think I'm telling falsehoods, and it's very
hard to be looked at in that way; it is, indeed, Marian.'

'You can't help it, mother. I suppose their suffering makes them
unkind and unjust.'

'That's just what it does, my dear; you never said anything
truer. Poverty will make the best people bad, if it gets hard
enough. Why there's so much of it in the world, I'm sure I can't
see.'

'I suppose father will be back soon?'

'He said dinner-time.'

'Mr Quarmby has been telling me something which is wonderfully
good news if it's really true; but I can't help feeling
doubtful.

He says that father may perhaps be made editor of The Study at
the end of this year.'

Mrs Yule, of course, understood, in outline, these affairs of
the literary world; she thought of them only from the pecuniary
point of view, but that made no essential distinction between her
and the mass of literary people.

'My word!' she exclaimed. 'What a thing that would be for
us!'

Marian had begun to explain her reluctance to base any hopes on
Mr Quarmby's prediction, when the sound of a postman's knock at the
house-door caused her mother to disappear for a moment.

'It's for you,' said Mrs Yule, returning. 'From the
country.'

Marian took the letter and examined its address with
interest.

'It must be one of the Miss Milvains. Yes; Dora Milvain.'

After Jasper's departure from Finden his sisters had seen Marian
several times, and the mutual liking between her and them had been
confirmed by opportunity of conversation. The promise of
correspondence had hitherto waited for fulfilment. It seemed
natural to Marian that the younger of the two girls should write;
Maud was attractive and agreeable, and probably clever, but Dora
had more spontaneity in friendship.

'It will amuse you to hear,' wrote Dora, 'that the literary
project our brother mentioned in a letter whilst you were still
here is really to come to something. He has sent us a specimen
chapter, written by himself of the "Child's History of Parliament,"
and Maud thinks she could carry it on in that style, if there's no
hurry. She and I have both set to work on English histories, and we
shall be authorities before long. Jolly and Monk offer thirty
pounds for the little book, if it suits them when finished, with
certain possible profits in the future. Trust Jasper for making a
bargain! So perhaps our literary career will be something more than
a joke, after all. I hope it may; anything rather than a life of
teaching. We shall be so glad to hear from you, if you still care
to trouble about country girls.'

And so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her
mother with the contents.

'I am very glad,' said Mrs Yule; 'it's so seldom you get a
letter.'

'Yes.'

Marian seemed desirous of saying something more, and her mother
had a thoughtful look, suggestive of sympathetic curiosity.

'Is their brother likely to call here?' Mrs Yule asked, with
misgiving.

'No one has invited him to,' was the girl's quiet reply.

'He wouldn't come without that?'

'It's not likely that he even knows the address.'

'Your father won't be seeing him, I suppose?'

'By chance, perhaps. I don't know.'

It was very rare indeed for these two to touch upon any subject
save those of everyday interest. In spite of the affection between
them, their exchange of confidence did not go very far; Mrs Yule,
who had never exercised maternal authority since Marian's earliest
childhood, claimed no maternal privileges, and Marian's natural
reserve had been strengthened by her mother's respectful aloofness.
The English fault of domestic reticence could scarcely go further
than it did in their case; its exaggeration is, of course, one of
the characteristics of those unhappy families severed by
differences of education between the old and young.

'I think,' said Marian, in a forced tone, 'that father hasn't
much liking for Mr Milvain.'

She wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks
on this subject, but she could not bring herself to ask
directly.

'I'm sure I don't know,' replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress.
'He hasn't said anything to me, Marian.'

An awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the
mantelpiece, and was thinking hard.

'Otherwise,' said Marian, 'he would have said something, I
should think, about meeting in London.'

'But is there anything in—this gentleman that he wouldn't
like?'

'I don't know of anything.'

Impossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then
rose, said something about putting the letter away, and left the
room.

Shortly after, Alfred Yule entered the house. It was no uncommon
thing for him to come home in a mood of silent moroseness, and this
evening the first glimpse of his face was sufficient warning. He
entered the dining-room and stood on the hearthrug reading an
evening paper. His wife made a pretence of straightening things
upon the table.

'Well?' he exclaimed irritably. 'It's after five; why isn't
dinner served?'

'It's just coming, Alfred.'

Even the average man of a certain age is an alarming creature
when dinner delays itself; the literary man in such a moment goes
beyond all parallel. If there be added the fact that he has just
returned from a very unsatisfactory interview with a publisher,
wife and daughter may indeed regard the situation as appalling.
Marian came in, and at once observed her mother's frightened
face.

'Father,' she said, hoping to make a diversion, 'Mr Hinks has
sent you his new book, and wishes—'

'Then take Mr Hinks's new book back to him, and tell him that I
have quite enough to do without reading tedious trash. He needn't
expect that I'm going to write a notice of it. The simpleton
pesters me beyond endurance. I wish to know, if you please,' he
added with savage calm, 'when dinner will be ready. If there's time
to write a few letters, just tell me at once, that I mayn't waste
half an hour.'

Marian resented this unreasonable anger, but she durst not
reply.

At that moment the servant appeared with a smoking joint, and
Mrs Yule followed carrying dishes of vegetables. The man of letters
seated himself and carved angrily. He began his meal by drinking
half a glass of ale; then he ate a few mouthfuls in a quick, hungry
way, his head bent closely over the plate. It happened commonly
enough that dinner passed without a word of conversation, and that
seemed likely to be the case this evening.

To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or
caustic comment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian.

Ten minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of
clearing the atmosphere.

'Mr Quarmby gave me a message for you,' she said. 'A friend of
his, Nathaniel Walker, has told him that Mr Rackett will very
likely offer you the editorship of The Study.'

Yule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes
intently on the sirloin for half a minute; then, by way of the
beer-jug and the salt-cellar, turned them upon Marian's face.

'Walker told him that? Pooh!'

'It was a great secret. I wasn't to breathe a word to any one
but you.'

'Walker's a fool and Quarmby's an ass,' remarked her father.

But there was a tremulousness in his bushy eyebrows; his
forehead half unwreathed itself; he continued to eat more slowly,
and as if with appreciation of the viands.

'What did he say? Repeat it to me in his words.'

Marian did so, as nearly as possible. He listened with a
scoffing expression, but still his features relaxed.

'I don't credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a
proposal,' he said deliberately. 'And I'm not very sure that I
should accept it if it were made. That fellow Fadge has all but
ruined the paper. It will amuse me to see how long it takes him to
make Culpepper's new magazine a distinct failure.'

A silence of five minutes ensued; then Yule said of a
sudden.